


When You're Nowhere, Going Somewhere Shouldn't be so Difficult.

by Rynfinity



Series: The March of the Damned [12]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He rifles through the bits and pieces - touching each treasure lovingly, reverently - without discriminating between the <i>bad</i> and the <i>good</i>.</p><p> </p><p>This is a direct sequel to <i>The Stairs are Easier than the Rope, Whether You're Going Up or Down</i> and will make the most sense read after its predecessors. </p><p>This story takes place in the same AU and timeframe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1460929/chapters/3077449">Surrender</a> from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/104813">Out of the Mouths of Babes</a>; unlike the Babes stories, this one is told from Loki's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's _back and forth_ , not the other way around.
> 
> Or, packing means unearthing things.

_Loki Odinson_. He rolls it around in his head for a while and then says it aloud:

"Loki.”

“Odinson."

It sounds- strange. Wrong. Unfamiliar. It's a relic of a past he set aside long ago, so distant now that it might as well be from an entirely different lifetime. The whole thing reminds him unpleasantly of this apartment, actually; once so familiar and now nothing more than an endless sea of moving boxes.

 _Loki Odinson._ He mouths the name silently at his own reflection, caught in the big mirror over the dresser. The words don’t even look right; they’re out of place and poorly fitted, much like (he can only imagine) waking up as a Loki-shaped version of Thor - strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes, ruddy-golden skin - would be.

~

He was born Loki Laufeyson, or so he's been told. The Laufey in question didn't stick around long enough to prove it, certainly not long enough to factor into Loki's memories. Baby Loki hadn’t even gotten its words or its stubby little sea-legs when it was left to its own devices.

Otherwise known as _abandoned._

Loki had picked the name up again, out of convenience, after his first inpatient stay. It was easier to go to Scott and Lila’s a whole new animal, one with no connections to District Attorney Odin Borson and his War on Crime.

Before that, Loki had been just a number - a client number - anyway.

Afterwards, when he'd gotten his stupid ass busted, he was a just a number once again; this time, it was the state ID number stamped across his file.

Loki went back to being Loki Laufeyson later on, around the time he hit the streets.

Well, when he bothered using a surname at all, that is.

The people in his life du jour - his bookie, his dealer, his fellow workers, his johns - never got that fancy; he was _hey asshole_ to the first group and _hey gorgeous_ to the second. _Bambi_ \- all wide eyes and spindly legs and clomping stripper heels - to Fandral. _Baby_ to the people who professed to hurt him less and like him more.

Professed to. Meant to, even.

Maybe.

~

He whips out his shiny new actually-legal non-driver's ID card – see: _harm, foul_ \- and lines it up alongside Loki _Laufeyson's_ skillfully forged driver's license.

Loki _Odinson_ looks quite a bit less like he's been ridden hard and put away wet in the days and weeks and months before he’d had his picture taken. Not to mention like he's eaten more regularly. Slept in a bed with sheets, even.

The haunted, _hunted_ look through the eyes, though? That’s pretty much the same.

~

Laufeyson. Odinson. No one's son.

~

Loki Noonesson is a little magpie, all ruffled feathers and aggressive self-defense and noise. Magpie Loki collects life’s sparkly bits and tucks them safely away.

He drops to his knees in front of the dresser, made brave (made careless) by the knowledge that Thor is busy throwing his own life away presently and won't be home for at least another hour.

Loki slides the big bottom drawer all the way out and sets it aside, careful not to mark the hardwood... and not to put the thing on the small, fluffy rug at the foot of the bed where it - this dresser is big, solid cherry, its drawers strong and heavy much like its owner – would be bound leave a telltale imprint.

In the space underneath, lying on the floor and pressed tight against the inside of the dresser's skirting where Thor would never think to check, is the slender box that holds Loki's _real_ riches. His magpie treasures. His life.

His story, in bits and pieces.

Each small object is a part of him, for good and for bad.

~

He overturns the box, gently tipping everything out and piling it carefully on the floor. This isn't a pruning, a weeding-out; everything here is coming with him, without question. It’s more that right this moment he feels- lost. Unmoored, adrift. He needs to ground himself. To handle each bit of history one more time before packing it stealthily away.

~

Thor would never understand. Even Sif wouldn't. Leah or Anna might, sure... but probably in ways he would come to regret eventually.

No, this is magpie Loki's and Loki's alone.

~

He rifles through _his bits and pieces_ , touching each treasure lovingly, reverently, without discriminating between the _bad_ and the _good_.

As he finishes with each one, he puts it gently back where it belongs; right here, in the box.

~

On top of the upended heap lies his ID number from prison, hastily scribbled - on the back of one of Odin's business cards - in his brother's awful penmanship. The card's edges are curled and stained. Even now the thing bears the faintest curve (and, as he brings it to his nose and sniffs, the sharp leather-sweat scent) of Thor's wallet.

Next up, a few pieces of jewelry wrapped together unceremoniously in a soft scrap of cloth:

A tiny emerald earring, once belonging to Lila, which came to Loki - via Algrim, of all people - from a friend of a friend of a friend.

The curved gold bar with the red faux-ruby ends that always reminds him of Thor and that goes (or, _went_ – Loki hasn’t worn, or even tried to insert, it in ages) in the Prince Albert piercing Thor can never, ever know exists because Oh My Fucking God what a conversation _that_ would be.

His _insurance policy_ , the heavy platinum pinkie ring with the big-ass diamond he’d lifted off a particularly odious john who really, really had it coming.

A slightly-scuffed enamel-on-silver snake, done in black and beautiful shades of deep, translucent green, that he’d found on the sidewalk near the center and kept just because he liked it.

After the jewelry, a stack of lovely postcards… from Thor. Loki’d pretended he’d thrown them out when he left the inpatient facility, partially to be an ass and partially because needing to keep them was- mortifying.

He hadn’t thrown away so much as one.

Loki looks them over one at a time, slowly, first each picture and then its corresponding brief message.

He’s not crying afterwards; it’s the dust.

A faded, creased photograph he’d found a few months ago, tucked in a book that must once have belonged to Frigga. It’s of Frigga herself, and her two boys, at the zoo on a sunny summer day. Thor looks to be about five years old, all freckles and tousled hair and gap-toothed grin. Loki looks small and delicate and obstinate.

He studies his little self closely, tipping the picture to better catch the light. Even in those days, he had pretty much the same pinched look about the eyes he wears today.

Off to the side, carefully wrapped in a clean tissue, the blade he _hadn’t_ used on the day he’d dismembered that disposable razor. He fingers it carefully, testing the edge, and then rewraps it hastily and adds it to the box. He has no urge to use it just now, but you never know.

Anna’s business card.

A drawing, in colored pencils, that Greg had made for him a few days before discharge: a panda bear wearing _people_ scrubs. It’s just a quick sketch, on a folded sheet of lined paper. Every time he sees it, though, Loki smiles.

Two small screws, keepsakes from his wired-shut jaw, because Greg was both a good friend (for a given value of friend, the sort you find in your nuthouse) and a weirdo in his own right. The tiny screws clink faintly when Loki rolls them together in his palm.

He hasn’t got any of the bullet; he sometimes wishes he did.

Securely sealed in a ziploc bag, a small unopened bottle of the strawberry lube he always favored when he was working. The smell of it makes him gag now, but he keeps it just the same.

Magpie Loki is, admittedly, an especially strange bird.

A poem the dead kid from day treatment wrote. It’s not a very good poem, but it’s all that’s left of the kid and it seems like someone should have it. Loki’s not at all certain he’s that someone, in the long haul, but he’ll have to suffice for now.

More insurance, of an entirely different kind: A capped, unused disposable syringe. With, yes, the needle. ‘nuf said.

A wrinkled sheet of notepaper on which Loki has neatly printed a list of key numbers – Sif, Sigyn, Volstagg, and the like – in case something happens to his cell phone.

Last but not least, a small fired stoneware disk, also a lovely deep green and marked with his rune, that Loki’d made a few weeks back under guise of testing the green glaze.

He slips his old ID - _Loki Laufeyson_ \- into the box as well, under the list of phone numbers and the rune-marked disk. It clicks against the syringe and Loki’s breath hitches.

~

It’s not a very large box, all told, despite how much of his life it holds. Loki tapes it securely closed and folds it neatly inside a couple of his shirts, then tucks it into the (exact middle of the) suitcase of clothes and valuables he’s planning to carry with him to their new apartment – their new life – by car.

~

Getting the drawer back into the dresser is a workout, but he’s done it plenty of times before and he has the system down. Loki has everything back where it belongs - thankfully, because he really likes this particular hiding place and very much wants to continue to use it once they’re safely settled in their new home - before Thor arrives.

And then Loki flops on the bed, utterly drained, feeling like he’s run five hundred miles.

~

“Are you okay,” no-longer-an-attorney-now-that-he’s-surrendered-his-license-because-he-wuvs-his-bruddah Thor (it’s a long story, and further proof that no good deed goes unpunished wherever Loki is involved) asks, sounding concerned.

Thor looks disproportionately tired himself, like they’ve both had one long-ass day in the couple of hours since they last saw one another.

“Just sick of packing,” Loki lies. He pats the blanket next to himself. “Come here.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everywhere you turn, there are thorns.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _NOTE: If you have already read this section of Babes, you will realize Loki is (very understandably, probably) misunderstanding something important here. Loki, however, doesn't have the benefit of that additional information._

The cemetery – it’s more of a memorial park, really, all grass and trees and prettily flowering bushes – is calm and lovely. Serene. It’s a fitting place, one that reminds him of her.

He's never once come here. Never had the opportunity, really, although now on the eve of leaving – as he dutifully follows Thor though the endless sea of little bronze plaques like a sad, kicked puppy - Loki can't shake the feeling that he never _made_ the opportunity. 

That he failed, somehow, yet again.

~

Finally, after they’ve politely picked their way among the grave sites for several minutes, Thor pulls up. He gestures to a flat bronze rectangle nestled in the grass. It looks just like the countless rectangles stretching off to left and right. Marching ahead and behind. "This is it," Thor offers quietly, fidgeting with his shirt like he's not sure what to do with his hands. "Here you go."

Loki sidles past his brother, careful not to step on the marker. As he sinks to his knees in the lush green grass, Thor steps back a little to give him more room.

“It’s pretty here,” his brother says after a moment.

“Mm,” Loki hums, but he’s no longer really paying attention.

~

_Frigga Fjorgynsdottir_ , the raised letters read. There isn’t any decoration; the rest of the plaque is smooth and blank, save for her dates of birth and (far too early) death. Loki traces each letter slowly with a single finger, one by one, and then busies himself clearing away loose leaves and dried blades of grass - the sum total of many small messes left behind by the mowing crew, no doubt; perpetual care doesn't mean The Perpetual Picking Off Of Tiny Scraps Of Nature, clearly - from the marker's face.

~

All the way here, holding Thor's fingers and making brave wisecracks, Loki had sworn (to himself) that he would not cry. _Would not_. He needs to be strong; to pay his proper respects and to not make an ass of himself in front of his brother.

If Loki closes his eyes (and he does), he can picture it: His endlessly strong brother standing bravely by and watching the gilded cement casing housing Frigga's urn - from what Loki’s been told, she was cremated - lowered into this ground. Watching in silence as, bit by shoveled bit, everything was covered over with this dirt, here… on which grows this very grass.

And Thor was here being strong alone, without him. Without anyone.

Ugh.

_You didn't kill her,_ he reminds himself. _You weren't even the catalyst; Odin was_.

It doesn't help. His eyes burn with the strain of not crying.

_You were in jail, stupid. It’s not like you were even here._ Loki wasn't. Frigga died because Odin - just doing the DA's job, too, not taking the kinds of indefensible liberties that drive Thor wild these latter days - didn't do enough about the man who’d allegedly killed Malekith's own family. All of which, of course, is Malekith's opinion.

Whatever actually happened, Loki wasn't even on the radar.

Except for how he was.

After all, he's bought drugs from Malekith. Turned tricks for Malekith. Robbed and been beated, forged and been fucked every way from sideways for Malekith.

He’s dragged his scrawny, hurting ass off the floor to go walk the streets of _Frigga’s own city_ dressed like a fucking girl for Malekith.

Loki almost got his brother killed for Malekith. And nearly got himself killed too, very nearly, but perhaps that would have been a blessing. Probably not to Frigga, though; she was nothing if not tirelessly forgiving.

He’s slept with his brother’s friends behind Thor’s broad, strong back for Malekith… which is a secret he still carries today, one he will carry to his grave.

Oh no, Loki knows, he wasn’t off the radar; he was right in the thick of it. Right in the goddamned center.

_I fucking let that beast kiss me,_ he thinks, abruptly losing all that comfortable third-party distance as the house of cards collapses around him. _I let him kiss me like he owned me, right in front of my brother like it was nothing at all._ The first wrenching sob echoes a little; the first hot tears sting. _I was the fucking hammer Malekith used to drive his victory home._

Loki curls forwards, down, until his forehead rests between his hands on the grass and his hair spills over the marker. "I'm so, so sorry, mother," he whispers into the cool green. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

And then he can't hold back - the waterworks come pouring down like a hurricane.

~

Being off the shit has turned him into the worst kind of reformed drinker, even though Loki’s still dead certain he never had a drinking problem to begin with. He’s lost all his tolerance for other people getting hammered and acting like asses, basically.

"You're drunk," he snaps as Fandral – the last person he wants to see, really, but Thor wanted to say one final round of goodbyes and what was Loki going to say about it? Exactly. – staggers into the apartment.

"And you're batshit crazy," Fandral, always the charming gentleman, fires back. "What's your point?"

"Stop it, guys," Volstagg says in his best _father means business_ voice, pulling Fandral up hard. "Please. Just try behaving for once in your life. It'll be novel. Seriously. Try it." He propels his drunken charge over to the sofa. "Here, have a seat," he says, laughing, as Fandral – squawking indignantly - lands hard enough to bounce. “And thank you kindly.” Volstagg adds, flopping down himself. “Of course I’ll be happy to join you.”

Fandral shoots Loki a dagger-filled look. Loki knows screwed when he sees it, but it’s too late to run.

"I hope I didn't interfere with any plans," Thor says lamely as he settles himself into one of the overstuffed chairs.

"Not at all," Volstagg says, still trying for cheerful. "I just finished dinner with the family. This was a perfect time to step away. We’re both-,”

"Oh, you- ouch, asshole,” Fandral snarls as Volstagg elbows him hard. “Thor here asked me a question." He squints at Thor. "I went out first because I know you're a boring-ass pussy-whipped loser these days," he says, too loud for the size of the room. "But it's no problem,” he adds, bitterly sarcastic. “None at all. I'm good, thanks for asking."

His patience, nothing to write home about to start with, just plain ends. Loki dodges his brother and steps right up in Fandral’s space, all angry power stance. "Just where do you think you get off talking to my brother that way," he asks nastily, glaring. "If you can't find yourself some manners in the next thirty seconds, we’re done here and you're leaving."

Fandral catches him by the wrist, unexpectedly quick for someone so shitfaced. Loki tries to pull loose; instead he slips and ends up draped over Fandral’s lap. Which is _not_ the place he wants to be. Not in front of Thor.

Not anywhere, actually. Not anymore and never for free. But especially not in front of Thor. People have fucking _died_ for smaller crimes.

"Let him go," Volstagg insists, which is noble but futile.

"Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Fandral retorts, crushing Loki to his chest. “Did you ever tell your _brother_ the truth, _Bambi?_ ”

_Oh, shit. Oh NO._ "Please don't," Loki begs. "Please." This is the very, very last thing he needs. Especially now, when things had gotten so, so close to improving.

Fandral laughs. "You didn't. How surprising, my pretty little liar." He kisses Loki’s neck, just below the ear, tightening his hold when Loki tries to twist away. "Then again, if you had, he might not be so eager to _spirit you off to fairyland._ And where would that _leave ___you, exactly?"

"Please," Loki tries once last time, truly desperate now. The expression on Thor’s face is awful.

"I think it's time for us to go," Volstagg says, leaning forward.

"Not so fast, big boy,” Fandral argues. “We just got here. And the little _princess_ has something to tell her brother, doesn't she?" He squeezes a tiny pained sound out of Loki.

"Don't hurt him," Thor roars, flying out of his chair and coming right at them.

"Stop it," Loki tries to yell. There is no way back from here. “He’s right.” He swallows hard; this is going to really, really fucking hurt, but there’s simply no alternative. “I _should_ tell you,” he says to Thor. “I’m tired of secrets. And let the fuck go of me,” he adds, sharply, to Fandral this time. “Don’t be such a coward. I won’t let him hit you.”

In the middle of it all Thor freezes. “Tell me what, Loki,” he asks, quiet and dangerous.

Loki clears his throat. It feels very loud. “Fandral was one of my customers,” he says, before he can chicken out. Whatever Fandral says will only be worse. “A regular. Back- back before you came for me.”

It’s true. He’s not proud of it, but it’s true. The devil you know, after all, is better than the one you don’t.

Thor takes a step back, thrashing his head back and forth like a crazed animal. “But you said-,” he accuses, looking from Fandral to Volstagg. “But he said-.”

“You have to believe me,” Volstagg says, and Loki’s not sure he’s ever hear the guy sound frightened before. “I had no idea. He always acted like he _would_ do it. I swear, he never once mentioned that he _had._ ”

Thor’s face twists into something dark and awful. Loki’s stomach drops. “Get the fuck out of my house,” his brother demands, shaking a fist right in Loki’s face, “or I swear to god I will fucking kill you.”

On a burst of adrenaline Loki makes a unexpectedly-successful last-ditch effort to break free, falling all over the place as he tries to escape not just Fandral but his brother. Thor is still talking, Loki thinks, but his ears are already ringing far too hard for hearing.

His brother picks up a big, chunky glass and pulls back like he’s going to throw it.

Loki dives for cover, shrieking.

There’s nowhere to go.

~

He has both hands over his head. He’s shaking violently.

It’s a very long time before he realizes it: The blow somehow never fell.

Even so, Loki can’t make himself stop cowering. He can barely think.

Of all the myriad reasons he’s ever expected to die, this was _never_ one of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sif helps defuse things.

"It's just you and me now," Sif says quietly. Or, at least, her voice feels quiet; his heart is still hammering and his ears are still ringing. "Really,” she adds when he doesn’t respond, “your brother is making us some cocoa."

He concentrates on his breathing, straining to listen as the air moves wetly in and out. In. Out. He snuffles.

The floor creaks as she squats down a couple of feet away. "If I ask you a few questions, can you nod? Or shake your head no?"

Loki ponders that one a long time before finally nodding.

"Thank you," she says, and he nods again. Even though she hasn't actually asked a fresh question. Looking at her is too much just yet, he quickly discovers. Instead, he studies what’s right in front of his nose: the way his pants stretch over his left kneecap. It's all blurry. He blinks a few times, lashes clumped and heavy and lids puffy with crying.

Everything is still kind of blurry.

He keeps breathing, in and out.

"Are you injured,” she asks him, “physically?"

Loki shifts a little, testing, in case his short-term memory is somehow playing tricks on him. His back and arms feel a little strained, probably from the death grip with which he’s still hugging his own legs. Beyond that nothing feels too terrible. He jerks his head back and forth; _no._

~

"You're shaking," she says, a little while later. "Would this blanket help?"

Loki assumes so. That, and straight through the mental fog he appreciates how Sif is delicately avoiding the thinky _do you want_ -style questions. The ones that always prove so, so hard when his brain has melted down.

Blanket, help.

Simple.

He nods.

"Should I put it around your shoulders?"

He hesitates. It's a wonderful blanket and he would love to be wrapped in it. He doesn't think he can unwind from his little ball just yet, though; parts of him might fly off into the void. But _putting_ could mean hands- hands on him. He- he-.

"I won't touch you," she reassures, reading his poor little broken mind. "I'll just drape it around you. Will that work?"

It might. He nods.

The blanket is so, so soft. It floats down, settling about him as warm and gentle as a tropical breeze. Loki can't resist the urge to nuzzle it.

"Can you stay here," Sif asks. "Safely, and now, I mean."

He thinks a moment again, then nods.

"Okay," she concedes. "If you change your mind you can come chill at my place, you know."

It sounds a little too much like _I'll just be going back to my place now_ , enough that he shudders, but there isn’t any real evidence she’s leaving. He finally makes himself sneak a peak; no, Sif is just sitting there quietly, cross-legged. He's not sure if he's supposed to nod; he does a quick one, just in case.

~

"Are you angry with Thor?"

That one catches him by surprise. A small "no," clogged and nasal, sneaks out before he can catch himself.

Sif doesn't react. They sit there quietly, listening to his brother plunking around in the kitchen.

~

After a few false starts, Loki clears his throat. "I fucked Fandral," he blurts out. Saying it aloud makes it _real_ again. He starts back in with the shaking.

"Recently," she asks, only the faintest hint of shock creeping into her tone.

"No," Loki rasps. He has to stop to cough. " _Not_ recently. For hire. Back when I was using. Before I came ho- came _here_."

"Mm," she says. "Is that what you told Thor earlier?"

His eyes well up again. He's _so_ going to end up kicked to the curb for this one. Fuck, he would kick _himself_ to the curb. Twice. Three times. He nods, burrowing down into the blanket.

She makes a sad little sound. "Baby," she says, low and soothing. "It's not you he's angry with, honest. It's all Fandral."

 _That's_ unexpected. Loki pops up just enough to peer wetly at Sif over one pointy knee. "What? Why?"

She smiles faintly at him. "He hasn't told me yet," she says, shrugging. "Getting you looked after was his number one priority. I can hazard a guess, though."

He raises his eyebrows, feeling the sticky pull of wet hair against his face.

"Whatever happened," she offers, "however it all went down, Fandral should have known better."

~

“Look,” Sif tells him, after they’ve managed several consecutive minutes of something that might almost qualify as conversation, “I can’t speak for you but my ass is getting a little flat here. Want to move up on the sofa?”

Loki rocks back and forth tentatively. She’s right. He nods. He’s still shaky and his brain is still spinning out of control, but his heartbeat no longer echoes in his ears and he can breathe without having to issue his body reminders. He _likes_ the sofa. He should just go for it.

Sif helps him with his blanket, keeping it from falling as he gets stiffly to his feet and shuffles away from his corner. He sits carefully back down in the usual spot – his eyes are telling him Fandral isn’t there, but the rest of him still isn’t quite with the program – with just his backside... no flopping, no sprawling. It simply doesn’t feel safe. Not now.

“Is here okay,” she asks softly.

He’s not quite sure, but it _is_ good to be up off the floor. He rubs up and down his thighs, smoothing his pants. “I- I think so,” he tells her. “You honestly believe he isn’t mad at me?” That part, he just can’t fathom. The whole Fandral business is the kind of truth he’s always thought would _end_ them.

“I bet he’s mad _for_ you,” she replies. “Or, at least, he was. Hopefully he’s calmed down some by now.”

~

By the time Thor rejoins them, balancing a ridiculous box-top full of steaming mugs in his big hands, Loki has _calmed down some_ as well.

"Hi," his brother says, slowly and carefully setting down the makeshift tray before going for one of the chairs.

Sif raises her eyebrows, questioning, and Loki gives her a tiny nod. "Oh, no, here,” she says to Thor, getting quickly to her feet. “Allow me. I'll move over there. You come sit with your brother."

Thor turns back to face them. "May I," he asks Loki politely, waiting to be invited before sitting down.

Loki takes one sip of his very, very hot cocoa and then another. He looks up at Thor, who looks- frightened. Frightened and worried and sad. Not angry, not at all.

Maybe Sif was right.

He nods.

They all sit quietly, by turns sipping at and blowing on their cocoa. It’s delicious, rich and creamy and wonderfully chocolaty, even considering his stuffy, runny nose.

Crying is overrated.

~

Loki is about halfway through his own mug when Sif sets hers down. "So,” she asks Thor bluntly, “does this change anything?”

"No," his brother says, right away. "Well, I guess it _does_ change whether or not I'm speaking to Fandral." Loki watches Thor’s face, trying to get a read on whether or not his brother is lying. "As in, I'm not,” Thor continues, laughing a little at himself. “Probably ever, but I’ve been told both Loki and my therapist like it better when I steer clear of absolutes." 

That much is true, at least, and probably ridiculously hard for Thor to admit. It makes the rest seem- more authentic.

"So you don't hate me,” Loki ventures, cringing inside. “I’ve always thought if you found out you would hate me." He hates himself for everything about it, after all, and _he_ was _there_.

"No," his brother exclaims, so forcefully Loki recoils slightly. "Not at all. I- I just hate it that you were suffering and- and I didn't know. I would have come for you sooner."

 _Oh_.

"Maybe I wasn't ready to be rescued," Loki says, tucking his surprise safely away. "Maybe it just wasn't time."

Thor crosses his legs, huffs, and abruptly uncrosses them again. "Still,” he insists, “I would have tried."

 _That’s_ the Thor Loki knows and loves. "Oh, yes, I _know_ ," he agrees, smiling.

Sif laughs. "Give a man a hammer..."

Loki laughs too, with wild abandon, until his eyes are streaming. He _needs_ this, desperately, and can’t find it in himself to care how it comes across.

Which is apparently scary: "Are you okay," Thor asks him when he finally quiets again.

"No," Loki tells his brother, candidly. "But, given enough time, perhaps I will be."

~

It’s getting late when they send Sif packing, literally. Loki feels utterly and completely drained… even the basics like brushing his teeth feel too complicated. That, and he’s still edgy. Still waiting for the proverbial _other shoe_ to drop.

All that actually happens, though, is some of the nicest cuddling he’s gotten in long time.

He doesn’t have the energy to wrap his head around how someone so viciously dangerous can be this gentle.

Loki yawns and snuggles close, back pressed against Thor’s chest. Right now he simply has nothing left; he’ll just have to think (worry) that one through another time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor talks Loki into it, one last time.

It’s his last day here at day treatment; tomorrow he and his brother are going to pack all day (well, they’re going to _finish_ packing… they’ve chipped away at it for weeks, doing a little bit most evenings, and now that Thor is between jobs he’s supposed to be home making a significant dent in what remains) and then the next day the movers are coming. That’s the day he and Thor are _leaving_.

Loki looks around. A great deal has changed over the relatively short time he’s been enrolled here: people have come and gone, _graduated_ and relocated and been arrested and died; he personally has been both clean and pharmacologically stable and has finally managed to, for the most part, move beyond turning to self-harm every time things get at little bumpy. That said, at least where he’s concerned, a good (bad) amount hasn’t changed at all. He’s still getting all tangled up in knots over things, things that seemingly come right out of nowhere. Things that knock him flat and leave him dazed and reeling. Or frantic. Or all of the above.

~

They’re good people here, it turns out. They’ve taken care of him and put – graciously, even when grace has been entirely undeserved – up with all of his shit. They’ve done so since the very first day; when he showed up all edgy and stretched thin and itching for a fight, when he missed his residential treatment team like whoa and wasted absolutely no effort whatsoever trying to hide it. Everyone, really, from the guard to the nurses and from the art and recreational therapy staff to the counselors: good people, all of them. Loki has stayed on track with his DBT studies, found a supporter in Leah, and made some reasonably cool pottery (all of which he’s left here, save the little amulet in his box of magpie treasures, because his brother would never understand and he doesn’t want to come home from the center with his art projects in hand like some fucked-up little schoolchild) with the people next door.

It’s been okay. Better than okay, sometimes. He’s going to miss it.

~

“Just a normal day today, please,” Loki tells Leah when he reports for his final session. “No fuss, no weeping or wailing or rending of garments.” He smiles, trying not to look as sad as he feels. “I’ll stop by and do my goodbyes in a couple of days, when Thor and I are on our way to our new apartment,” – it’s far easier to say that than it is to say _new state_ or even new city; while he’s beyond embarrassed admitting it, considering how vocally indifferent he’s been towards this town at the best of times, he sure is being disgustingly maudlin about leaving it – “but today is just business as usual. Besides,” he points out before she can protest, “I have something I need to talk about.”

He does. Thor’d insisted on it, when they woke up the morning after what he’s sure will eventually be deemed The Fandral Incident and entered into the annals of _weird shit Loki’s done_. “Please, brother,” Thor had wheedled, cupping Loki’s face gently in his hands, “you need to understand you did nothing wrong. Promise me.”

Thor normally refrains from both asking for and granting promises these days, claiming he’s making a concession to how the two of them live in constant flux and are both dirty rotten liars. Somehow, instead of rendering the conversation wholly farcical, that begging had given it added gravitas. To the point where Loki had sighed unhappily and- and agreed. Caved. Given up without a fight.

That right there is enough to prove he pretty much _does_ need to discuss it with somebody.

~

“So,” Leah asks when Loki’s finished sketching the basic framework of his tale of woe, “whose fault do you think all this might be?” Her expression is carefully neutral; she’s learned over time how well he mines for the very smallest clues and has done her best to dodge him.

He knows the answer immediately; he waits barely long enough to avoid being nicely reminded to _reflect before responding_ before offering it up: “Mine.”

Her brows pull together the slightest bit. “Can you walk me through your reasoning,” she asks, nicely. Like she’s just making conversation… except she never does. Not during a session. She doesn’t agree with him. The tells are subtle, but they’re there.

That’s okay. This one is actually pretty simple; he can explain. “Fandral is – well, _was_ , I guess, although only time will really tell – Thor’s good friend.” Not his best friend, no, but right up there. “I _cheated on Thor_ with one of his closest friends,” he spells out, clearly, when she still looks skeptical. “How would that not be my fault?”

Leah’s eyes narrow slightly. “Were the two of you, you and Thor, together – a couple, I mean – “ she clarifies, “when all this happened?”

“No,” Loki says quickly. “Time-wise, we’re talking back when Thor thought I was dead. He and I hadn’t been together in ages, not since before I went to jail. Before the nuthouse, even.” He’s babbling; he can feel it. “Years.”

“And were you and Fandral dating?” This line of reasoning of hers is clearly going somewhere, probably somewhere painful and difficult, but Loki is a little too caught up in proving his point to stop and puzzle through it.

“No,” he says, huffing out a little laugh. “I don’t think it counts as _dating_ when all you do is fuck. Or when one person is _paying_.” He finally has to look away, towards one of Leah’s scratched, dented filing cabinets. “I guess you could say I was his fucktoy, if the whole thing has to have a label.”

“So this took place when you were a sex worker,” she verifies.

He nods. It sounds too clean that way, though. “I was a hooker,” he corrects. “A whore.”

“And using,” she finishes for him, even though he was done enough already.

“Yes,” Loki says, a little exasperated, “I was using. One, hence the other.”

He can see Leah’s pen moving, out of the corner of his eye. “Let me play this back,” she says. “You let me know if I’ve gotten anything wrong, okay?”

“Mm,” he hums. This is not one of his favorite games. Well, unless he’s doing it _to_ his brother. Which he isn’t; not this time.

“You were an active addict, employed as a sex worker. Fandral, who happened to be a friend – at the time, at least – of Thor’s, was one of your customers. Thor likely thought you were dead at that point; either way, the two of you had not been a couple for quite some time.” She shifts in her chair; her pad rustles. “Is that right?”

He nods. “Pretty much.”

“What did I miss,” she asks.

“Nothing,” he tells her, abandoning his attempt to avoid committing. “You got it right.”

“You had other customers?”

“Many,” he says, finally looking her in the eye again. “I was pretty popular, believe it or not.” No matter how many times he tells his story in therapy, this part invariably ends up as a challenge. _I dare you to agree with me,_ he thinks, _when it’s pretty much your job not to._

She just nods, though, expression thoughtful. “I can see that,” she says, which somehow manages to be both wildly surprising and expected all in one. “So, in summary, you turned tricks and one of your johns was someone you knew from before, right? Someone who knew your brother, and probably other friends as well?”

“Right,” he agrees.

“And this is your fault.”

“ _Right_.” Jesus fuck, it’s not rocket science.

Leah actually _sighs_. “I’m going to reframe this slightly. Tell me what you think. At a time in your life when you were especially vulnerable, someone who knew you and could have made a real attempt to get you to safety took advantage of you instead.”

Loki frowns, this time. “It wasn’t like that,” he insists.

“I reserve the right to disagree with you,” she reminds him. “But, where do you feel we’re not agreeing?”

“This was all my _choice_ ,” he explains, frustrated. The whole thing is obvious; it shouldn’t require nearly this much explaining. “I did it because I _chose_ to. And I shouldn’t have chosen to fuck my brother’s friend.”

“And if you had chosen not to,” she asks, “what would have happened then?”

He’d actually tested that out a few times… not with Fandral, specifically, but with other johns. “Some of Malekith’s guys would have beaten the shit out of me,” he tells her.

Leah cocks her head. “Does that really seem like a choice to you, then? Because it just doesn’t sound like one to me.”


End file.
